The Fox and the Scorpion
by Spikey44
Summary: Have you ever heard the tale of the fox and the scorpion? Think you know how it ends, think again. A tale of poisonous thoughts and their antidote. A fable about the pirate and the knight.


The Fox and the Scorpion

_Disclaimer: all known characters and named places, such as 'Landis' property of Square __Enix_

_A/N: this little piece is inspired by the fiction of Anya __al'nighter__, who really makes this pairing work, particularly her story 'Rules of Engagement'. _

There is an old folk tale about the fox and the scorpion. I can't recall where I heard it, or perhaps in fact I found it hidden in faded lettering in one of father's old dusty tomes? No matter it is not the providence that is important but the lesson.

As the tale goes, and you'll have to forgive me if abused memory has detrimental effect upon this narration, Fox, on his wanderings, comes upon a large expanse of water and upon the banks of this great lake a lone scorpion paces.

One might wonder upon the accuracy of this tales construing of local ecology and the natural behaviours of the various reflected fauna, or perhaps you only ponder this if you, like myself, have been raised in the shadow of a mad scientist, but regardless of any factual inaccuracies Fox and Scorpion start a conversation.

No doubt they began with the usual pleasantries, something along the lines of 'is that a poisonous stinger I see, or are you just pleased to see me?' or words to that affect. Eventually they come to the meat of their discussion, namely how to cross this great expanse of water.

' Let me ride upon your back as you swim across.' Scorpion inevitably propositions Fox, perhaps over drinks and a nice game of cards, having first broken the ice over a brief and pleasant discussion regarding the weather.

'Hah! I think not.' Fox likely replied, having some native wit to him, he recognises the dangers inherent in such a proposal. ' You are a scorpion and I know your sort. You will sting me and strike me dead with your poisoned tail.'

But scorpion, knowing well the prejudice that abounds regarding his species, is undeterred. Here, I rather fancifully imagine Scorpion ordering our dear Fox another drink and shuffling the cards with deliberate ease, though I concede neither creature possesses the opposable digits for such an undertaken.

'Not so.' Scorpion insists, 'For I have such a desire to cross the lake, and to sting you as we cross would drown us both.'

Fox cannot argue the logic to this statement, alas, had Fox been born of the Archadian Gentry he would have seen the many, many honeyed traps and uncertainties laid in Scorpions innocuous words, but Fox instead feels obliged to trust Scorpion who has been such charming and genial company all this while.

And so Fox agrees to ferry Scorpion across the lake on his back and the pair set off for their grand voyage.

For the first leg of the swim Scorpion is no trouble whatsoever, Fox is really rather embarrassed he ever questioned Scorpions intentions at all. They make quick work of the shallow waters, and Fox, strong and steadfast, powers his way into the very centre of the lake, where the deepest and darkest waters await.

And can you guess what happens once our intrepid pair reached the very centre of the lake? Fox certainly didn't, though, if one is to be brutally frank, he should have suspected.

Who can say what motivated Scorpion, sailing the lake on the strong and capable back of dear Fox, perhaps poor Scorpion was merely overcome with excitement to be the first scorpion to find means to reach the far banks of the lake, perhaps he never intended to strike Fox with his venomous stinger?

Regardless, the tale does not give any answers, all it tells us is that Scorpion did render onto Fox a fatal sting and as the lethal poison encroached upon his heart, Fox turned his head to look upon Scorpion, who still rode upon his back, and with voice filled with the uncomprehending betrayal of the just and pure questioned of his passenger:

'Fool, why have you done this? Now we shall both drown.'

' I know,' Says Scorpion, and in my conceit I like to imagine that the poor wretch is in quite a state, more from guilt than fear of impending death, ' But alas it is my nature, you see, I am a _Scorpion.' _

And thus with much sadness on both their parts Fox and Scorpion die, lost together under the deep, dark waters, never to see what wonders awaited them on the far side of the lake.

You may wonder why I have deigned to share this little fable with you, or you might were you not currently insensate and snoring by my side ( really you should consider doing something about the congestion in your sinuses before much longer, it is decidedly less than attractive.)

I find it ironic, though it could be argued that I am a tad over reliant on the ironies of life, that the banners of your lost country were once rampant with the proud visage of your native animal, the Golden Fox.

And it is certainly true, is it not, that you have known the sting of my motherlands own brand of virulent poison.

You who were supposedly slain by my kinsmen, their clever poison leaving indelible mark upon your faultless reputation, and yet you come back time and again for another dose of my own brand of Archadian distilled venom.

I truly wonder why, though not enough to ask; masochism perhaps? Or maybe you believe the old fallacy that states, that which does not kill us, only makes us stronger?

You have a broad, strong back, much as the Fox. I cannot help but admire it, letting my fingers dance upon your weather worn flesh, the lattice work of old scars webbing your shoulder blades.

You are a wily old desert fox, you have survived where you had no right too. Endured when it would have been much more politically palatably for you to have fallen to two years of darkness and strife; you should know better than to share your bed with a scorpion.

In all honesty, and yes, on occasion I can wield honesty with almost the same familiarity with which I bend deceit to my will, I expected you, my good Captain, to be the one to refuse me.

I would have preferred it thus, for all the pleasure I have extracted from your battle-forged body, at least then we could have been friends.

But no, just like poor, noble Fox, you fell victim to a pleasant demeanour and seeming lack of judgement in regards the supposed sins of the past (but then who am I to judge, I who abandoned my father to his own poisoned mind only to rear up years later, like a scorpion underfoot, to strike him dead).

We are nearly through with this merry quest of ours now; the distant shore is visible on the horizon and we wade through ever deepening waters. You know what that means; don't you?

I rest my cheek against the smooth, taut plains of your back; your back I find is a fine pillow, and take time to consider these dark waters.

I am better off than poor Scorpion from the fable. I have wings with which to fly over great expanses. I need not risk betraying the kindnesses of others through depending on anyone.

There is freedom there, a sense of liberation in acknowledging my evils and escaping their inevitable price.

But I know that it wasn't a lack of means to cross the lake alone that proved Scorpion's downfall; it was the desire for companionship that killed Scorpion and Fox both.

I am, underneath my skin, behind my smile (which I have heard it remarked is more smirk than smile) chockfull of poison. It runs in my veins, my thoughts are awash with venom. Oft times I am afflicted with such tremendous headaches because of it.

Flying keeps me safe from those who might fall victim to that inner poison and keeps me insulated from the pain I am well capable of inflicting, but it offers small comfort to me.

You, also, have small comfort in you. A soldier through and through you have very little softness or finesse to your touch. You take my venom and give me back something hard and rough and oddly cathartic.

I curse you for it daily.

Oh, look, now you stir, because of course I have such skilled hands; you cannot fail to be affected.

To me you are just another mechanism to be tinkered with. I like to pick things apart to see how they work, sometimes when feeling benevolent I even deign to put them together again once I am through with them.

I am smiling (smirking?) for you when you open bleary eyes. It is your age; I fear this gallivanting life is perhaps a bit much for an old dog like you.

I must admit, while you may lack stamina, you make up for it with enthusiasm, now I have you going again you'll keep me entertained well enough.

I don't like it when you attempt to engage in conversation, so shut you up by employing my tongue in other means than mere articulation.

Once it is done and I am momentarily out of venom to spill forth, and what is a scorpion without its poison, reduced to little more than an insect, I try to leave your bed.

You'll have none of it however, nary a word out of you, but you have that look in your eye which I refuse to find either intimidating or arousing that put paid any notions I might have of escape.

Even as a child when first finding the warning of the Scorpion and Fox I knew that the message was not for any altruistic foxes out there to beware the Scorpion, no, the warning was for the scorpions like myself.

Far better it was for Scorpion in the tale to die in the waters, never to reach the distant shore, to die a _scorpion _true.

Had Scorpion and Fox reached the other side together what changes would be wrought upon the Scorpion by friendships insidious hand?

I have never wished to find out; I am what I have made of myself for good or ill. I am my own man and belong to no other save myself.

(Certain _p__artners_ in exile from certain Woods do not count in this equation; we two are merely a sympathetic audience for each other's brilliant isolation.)

Your arms flung about me are heavy chains of flesh, binding me in place when I would sooner be off.

Gods but what a fool I am. I am the scorpion that did not sting when he had the chance and now find myself adrift and lost, venom spent, upon a distant shore.

Your rough, blunt fingers set themselves to petting and stroking over my exposed flesh, and I try to keep from purring my pleasure. You may have trapped me, I'll grant you that victory, fox of Landis, but you cannot make me _enjoy_ my captivity.

My silence is not enough of a deterrent for you, apparently. You persist with your rough petting (I wish now I had never woken you, don't you know we have a kingdom to liberate in the morning?)

Alright, damn you, perhaps you can make me enjoy some of this entrapment, _perhaps_.

In the morning I'll regret this, I already know it, but right here and now I find myself stretching memory's reach for some other fairytale metaphor to conduct my life by. One where I can have _this_, as often as I want, and still be the way I choose to be.

We are sailing through dark waters and the shore is some way off yet, I think, however, maybe we shall make it across together after all?

Perhaps the tale of the scorpion and the fox is due a revision? All fairytales should have a happy ending after all. Let this be ours.


End file.
